Often One's Dear Friend Talks Something Which

No Man Will Ever Unfold The Capacities Of His Own Intellect Who Does Not At Least Checker His Life With Solitude.

For Tea, Though Ridiculed By Those Who Are Naturally Coarse In Their Nervous Sensibilities, Or Are Become So From Wine-drinking, And Are Not Susceptible Of Influence From So Refined A Stimulant, Will Always Be The Favourite Beverage Of The Intellectual.

It Is An Impressive Truth That Sometimes In The Very Lowest Forms Of Duty, Less Than Which Would Rank A Man As A Villain, There Is, Nevertheless The Sublimest Ascent Of Self-sacrifice. To Do Less Would Class You As An Object Of Eternal Scorn, To Do So Much Presumes The Grandeur Of Heroism.

Surely Everyone Is Aware Of The Divine Pleasures Which Attend A Wintry Fireside; Candles At Four O'clock, Warm Hearthrugs, Tea, A Fair Tea-maker, Shutters Closed, Curtains Flowing In Ample Draperies To The Floor, Whilst The Wind And Rain Are Raging Audibly Without.

I Feel That There Is No Such Thing As Ultimate Forgetting; Traces Once Impressed Upon The Memory Are Indestructible.